


Scotch and Heroin

by uchiha_s



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Cousin Incest, Dark, Eventual Threesome, F/M, Filth, Graphic Description, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-01 09:57:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15771801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/pseuds/uchiha_s
Summary: He's all golden hair and Tom Ford suiting and contemptuous smirks. She's alive with anger and her belly is on fire with whiskey and her body is aglow with the knowledge that every man in the bar is looking at her—every man, that is, except him. Jaimsa, Jonsa, Jonmie?





	1. Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Make no mistake: this is dark. This is a bit of an experiment for me in a few ways, so I'm admittedly out of my depth here.

There is a part of Sansa that, knowing Jeyne's intentions, feels dirty following her friend into this bar. It is _posh._ Glass bricks line the walls, and windows into the next room of the bar, deep and long enough to stand in, are trimmed with lacquered black wood, and the bar is marble. Men in sleek suits and women with perfect highlights sip amber-coloured cocktails and there's a low rush of cool music that feels like fingers of frost. Her heavy red hair is sweaty on the back of her neck.

She’s already drunk.

"Oh, come on," Jeyne had goaded earlier as they'd been getting ready. They'd just finished spackling Sansa's face with makeup, hiding the puffiness of her eyes from hours—days—of sobbing. "Wear the gold dress."

"It clashes with my hair and it's..." she had trailed off as Jeyne held up the little gold dress teasingly, dancing around with it.

She didn't want to call it tacky—it was Jeyne's favorite dress. She smiled. "It'll be too small for me," she said instead, attempting to flatter. It was true that Jeyne was much smaller—shorter, more slender, less curvy. She'd always envied Jeyne for her slim-hipped figure, and bemoaned the ridiculous things—like this stupid, tasteless gold dress—that she chose to put on it.

Jeyne's eyes were dark with mischief, and then she said the words that sealed the deal.

"But Joff would _hate_ it."

Now she's walking into this bar, and her hands itch to tug down the dress that is stretchy gold and inches up her hips and strains around her bust, but she feels eyes on her as gazes swivel, subtle and hidden but tangible, and it stays her hand as she stands a little taller.

Jeyne might be thinner, but they're not looking at Jeyne. Some voice inside that sounds annoyingly like Arya points out just how pathetic of a thought that is, and Sansa mentally squashes that voice. She needs this tonight.

"They’re all investment bankers and government," Jeyne confides with relish under her breath as they walk to the bar. Their heels are a little too loud on the cold floor, and they're the youngest in the bar by about a decade. They can't afford these cocktails. "Your rebound shag should be classy, at the very least," she reasons.

There's a knot in her belly. _Rebound shag_ —the idea of it makes her recoil. She'd been saving herself for marriage, marriage to Joff, and had 'caved' in university to his urging. Three years later she's found out he was cheating the whole time—she isn't even surprised at this point—and her dream of saving herself for marriage is gone.

_Soiled._

_Ruined._

_Tarnished._

“Let’s drink,” Sansa declares.

Jeyne self-consciously orders two strong-sounding cocktails. Sansa is pretty sure every man in the bar is looking or has looked at her. This is a kind of currency which she has never exploited—she knows her beauty, she's been told every day since she was perhaps eight that she's a beauty—but she's never really _enjoyed_ the spoils of such a gift. Since she was a child, her beauty has only mattered in Joffrey’s perception of it.

Now that Joffrey no longer matters, it feels like a wild animal she’s been holding onto all this time. What’s she supposed to _do_ with it?

They slide onto the velvet barstools and giggle. The first cocktails go down in minutes. They're bitter and heavy and make her throat and belly burn, but that knot of horror—she's been spoilt, soiled, she's lost something she'll never get back—begins to melt.

The bartender wears a white button-up with a three-button vest over it, the sleeves of his shirt bunched up around his biceps, and his eyes are dark and wary as he pours them a second round of drinks and hands her back her credit card. She giddily thinks he looks like something from the period pieces her parents love to watch, especially with his mop of curly dark hair, and she smiles privately at him from behind her glass of rye, wondering—will he be it?

He turns away from her easily.

Not even half-tempted.

She eases the sting of rejection with another long swig.

"I'll get the next round," Jeyne announces loudly, fishing around in her Kate Spade crossbody for her own credit card, and things start to feel a bit fuzzy. Did that bartender _really_ just turn away from her? Sansa grips the counter, trying to puzzle it out as Jeyne opens the silk-covered book of cocktails for them, but the light's so dim and the font's so small that Sansa can't read it anyway. "Oooh, _sazerac_ sounds good," she chooses, trying to sound like she knows what she's talking about; trying to sound like they drink anything other than vodka sodas normally.

"I can't serve you," the bartender says bluntly, and Jeyne's face flames red. "You're drunk."

"It's on me," a voice like velvet comes from somewhere, and Sansa is hit with a burst of crisp cologne that makes her inhale deeply and think of orange groves; of gasping sex in the dark, the kind she’s never had. She swivels on her stool and the man is sliding his own card across the marble to the surly bartender. "Two...sazeracs, was it? For the ladies," he clarifies.

"He's alone," Jeyne hisses under her breath—as if Sansa needed to be told. She's not so drunk she can't figure that much out.

She stares, dumbfounded.

She has never seen a man like him before.

His golden hair gleams even in the dim lighting and his profile is regal, striking, powerful. He is lovely and powerful as a god.

But he's not looking at her.

Maybe she really _is_ ruined.

"Thank you," Sansa blurts, and reaches toward the man, but he's a bit too far, and he only slightly inclines his head, so she catches a glimpse of eyes golden-green, narrowed like a cat's, and the curve of smooth lips. There’s a flash of familiarity that slips through her fingers like silk.

"They're drunk," the bartender insists shortly. "Another drink will incapacitate them. Legally, I can't serve them."

"You're not serving them. You're serving me." The card he slides forward is matte black and has nothing on its face, and something about it puts a quiver of fear up her spine, but then the fear is gone in a flash and she can't figure out where it came from. "You're bloody stupid if you don't serve me— _you_ know just how well I tip."

His dark eyes flashing in silent mutiny, the barman snaps up the card and rings up the two drinks. "I had a tab," the golden-haired man says, not directly at anyone, "but I closed it—I'm about to leave."

There's a flash of a wristwatch—the name of the brand is on the tip of her tongue but then it's gone. Even Sansa, born into significant wealth, considers it aspirational and out of reach. "Nearly closing time."

"Th-thank you," Sansa stammers again as the barman slaps the card and receipt in front of the man, absolutely _furious_. The suited man grins at the barman, and it's like these two men know and dislike each other very much for a strange moment, and then the man takes a pen out of his inner pocket and dashes off a signature—she's not wearing her glasses and she was crying too much to put in her contacts so she can't read the name—before sliding off his barstool.

He is tall, lean, perhaps forty but with thick golden hair and his eyes and grin are leonine and his suit shows off just how much money he makes—and just how fit he is. _Rebound shag_ sounds better and better, especially if it looks like he does. He offers a sly half-grin to her and Jeyne; they're so transfixed they don't notice the barman furiously slamming their drinks down in front of them. His canines are pointed, noticeably so— _he's a lion man_ , Sansa thinks dazedly, marveling at its profundity.

He pauses before her, and even in the dim, amber light, his eyes are green, and he’s looking at her like he _sees_ her, like he’s _known_ her.

"Have a good night...and if not a _good_ night, then whatever sort of night you were aiming for," he says wryly as he shrugs into a fine wool coat, and then he's gone.

"Who _was_ that?" Jeyne breathes as they swivel back to face the counter. Their drinks, topped with an artfully curled lemon peel, sit before them, surrounded by approximately ten large glasses of water, and the barman is still glowering at them.

"You girls had better be careful," he warns. "These are strong drinks and you're small girls."

"Do you think so?" Jeyne flushes with pleasure. "You really think we're small girls?"

The barman looks like he's been hit with a brick; Sansa guesses he cannot process that anyone would be so shallow or stupid. She downs the drink.

"I'll be right back," she tells Jeyne, and she feels the barman's eyes on her—in lust or in that strangely, annoyingly personal worry of his?—as she slides off the barstool. The dress is practically indecent, it's ridden up so much, and her heels are wobbly—or is it the floor that's wobbly? Or is it her?—and the black and white tiled floor, so artfully checkered, guides her to the front door. She feels like she’s breathlessly running down a hill.

It's damp and cold on the street. The lion man is hailing a cab.

"I wanted to say thanks for the drinks," she chatters, her breath clouding in the air before her, as she hugs herself for warmth, knowing full well how it accentuates just how little the dress can contain her curves. His lovely eyes fall on her and that smirk—half amused, half contemptuous; pointed teeth and clever thin lips and golden stubble—plays about his sharp mouth and she thinks she could easily shag him in the back of a cab if that was what he wanted, could easily follow him back to his flat, undoubtedly a stunning walk-up in Mayfair, and shag him in his king-sized bed; she would do anything he wanted, would let him do anything he wanted—but she feels a rush of warm air as the bar door opens again.

"Do not go home with him ," the barman's voice is almost lost as a bus goes by.

Sansa cannot believe anyone could be so interfering. She looks over her shoulder; the barman’s only as tall as her with her heels on, and his jeans don't fit right, they're too baggy, and he's wearing combat boots that look _absurd_ when paired with the waistcoat vest.

"Don't try and tell--" she begins, outraged, but a cool voice stops her.

"Don't worry. I didn't ask her to.”

The lion man smiles at her once more. There's a lurch of familiarity again—she _knows_ those eyes, but from where?—and then he's sliding into a cab.

And now she's standing alone on the sidewalk with this bartender and she feels like she might throw up and she just wants to take off her heels and sit down, and why is she crying all of a sudden?

_'I didn't ask her to.'_

She thinks of her cheap gold dress, of the lion man's eyes raking down her body, sizing her up and mentally comparing her to someone else, and furious shame blooms in her.

"Your friend's in the loo. She'll be there awhile," the bartender finally says, shifting uncomfortably.

The heat of the moment is gone now; the urgency with which he threw open the doors and attempted to salvage her honor—at least that's her guess as to his purpose—seems to have bled from him. He feels silly, embarrassed; she can smell it on him.

"That man looked like my boyfriend's mum. Exactly like her. If she’d been a man, she’d be him," she blurts out suddenly.

The barman stares at her, bewildered. "Ex-boyfriend," she clarifies, but this doesn't make his wide-eyed shock lessen. She sways in her heels and the bartender moves to catch her but she lurches away and braces herself against the brick. "I don't need you," she informs him. He stands there even still, looking like a complete knob, she thinks, hovering; clearly thinking he must help but not knowing how to. "Why did he buy me a drink anyway?"

"Oh, Lannister always enjoys causing trouble," the barman says wearily, and her belly lurches again and she keels forward, scraping her knees on the sidewalk before he can save her, and then they're kneeling together as he tries to save her.

Lannister is Joff's mum's maiden name.

That was Jaime Lannister... 

The bartender's hands are strong and sure as he grips her shoulders, trying to brace her upright. "Come on," he sighs, and he's guiding her back inside. "It's last call anyway, I'll watch out for you..."

She’s crying again, perhaps only because the mystery of the night has dissolved.

* * *

When she wakes up the next morning in Jeyne’s flat, her mouth dry and her stomach gurgling, there is a moment of silent prayer of thanks to whatever higher deity is in charge of rebound shags: because she didn't go home with the lion man, or the bartender, or anyone else. She went home after vomiting in the loo of the bar, in the lovely stall next to Jeyne, and then the barman—Jon?—called them a cab as he closed the bar.

Waves of relief alternate with waves of shame—how she stumbled out into the night, desperate, drunk, and foolish, after that man; how the barman had to take care of her and Jeyne like they were first-year university students...But at the same time, she didn't go home with anyone—and even though that was her supposed goal, she's now rejoicing that she didn't.

And Arya looks like she wants to kill her when they Skype and discuss the awful night out.

"You _what?!_ You absolute dingbat!" Arya explodes, when Sansa explains her reasoning for her hunt for a rebound shag, and her feelings of being ruined. "What about feminism? What about independence? What about _Our Bodies, Our Selves_?! What, is this the fucking eighteenth century?"

Sansa cringes in front of her sister. It's only now, hundreds of kilometers apart and a few years of maturity and now that she's no longer dating Joff, that she and Arya can sustain any kind of relationship.

And the thing is on the tip of her tongue that she wants to tell her... the lion man was related to Joff's mum.

But for some reason she can't.

They ring off and it's when Sansa finally sees herself back to her own flat in Chelsea that she realizes what is missing: her credit card.

She wants to groan. She'll have to go back to the bar.

It also means the barman paid for their cab ahead of time.

 _Oh well, just another moment of shame to overcome_ , she thinks wryly.

So she gathers her courage but she can't do it on that Sunday—she decides she'll go back on her lunch break on Monday. And come Monday she dresses in her most responsible, grown-up work outfit—she works as a buyer at Jigsaw; Cersei got her the job, actually—and stands before her long mirror, eyeing the black boucle fluted skirt and matching jacket.

This is so much more 'her' than that gold dress, and she wants the barman, Jon, to know it. She's not some immature, crying drunk girl in a bar. She's a mature, responsible woman with a career and a life, thank you very much.

So on her lunch break she takes the Tube back to the bar. It's noon, and for a moment she stands in front of the door, her stomach in knots, remembering that heady moment of power as she stepped inside that other night, all eyes on her in her short gold dress. There's still shame, but there's also a moment of curiosity—could she make that happen again? Would it take that gold dress? What would it mean about her if she did it again?

She firmly opens the door and clacks inside on her perfectly appropriate, sensible black heels. The bar is mostly empty except for a few groups of suited businessmen, and she reflects once more how strange of a choice this was, how much she and Jeyne—so young, so drunk, and _so_ tacky—must have stood out to the other patrons of the bar. _People must have been laughing at us,_ she realizes with another jolt of horror and shame.

And he's there—Jon—behind the bar, only he's not "in uniform" yet, and is wearing a black tee, telling off a round-faced man.

"I told you, the beer glasses go on _this_ side, Sam," he's saying as she approaches. 

"I'm sorry! I was listening to a podcast and wasn’t thinking! It was rather good, though; it was on the War of the Roses, and did you know that everyone thinks that--" Sam is saying, but he halts abruptly when Sansa reaches the bar. Sam is peering at her with interest, and then glancing at Jon, whose face is wry with recognition.

Their eyes meet. He looks better like this, she thinks. He needs to shave, but she’s glad he didn’t.  _He's beautiful,_ she realizes suddenly, as though she's been slapped.

"Forgetting something?" he guesses dryly. She looks down and lets out a shamed laugh.

"Guilty as charged," she confesses. He holds up the red card and hands it to her.

"Feeling better?"

"Sunday was rough," Sansa confesses. "That wasn't...that wasn't my usual sort of thing, just so you know," she adds in a rush. "I'm not...I'm not normally like that."

"No, you didn't strike me as someone who has had very much experience with whiskey," Jon remarks, and Sansa blushes, feels partially vindicated, partially annoyed.

"Well, I just came by on my lunch break, so I'd better be off. ...Thanks for keeping this safe," she says, holding up the debit card before stowing it in her wallet.

“Well, _she_ was pretty. Red-headed, too,” Sansa hears Sam say significantly, as she’s walking out. She hears the two squabbling in low voices, and smirks as she pushes open the door.

* * *

Jon always can _feel_ when he enters.

He’s in the back, in the narrow, dark, clanging kitchen, sweating and angry. He’s just had to tell off Grenn for missing a shift, and the private investigator came back with yet another dead end, and he swore—he fucking _swore,_ dammit—that this wouldn’t happen again. But he feels it, that cosmic shift in the universe, and there’s a rush of fire through his veins, and he can’t think straight.

 _Just one more time,_ he swears, looking at the ceiling, his heart pounding, heat already rushing to his groin.

Jaime Lannister is like pure heroin.

Jaime Lannister is molten gold in his veins.

Jaime Lannister is his one vice.

“I’m up. You take your 'lunch,'” he tells Val five minutes later, after he’s changed out of his tee and into a proper shirt—per the uniform—and done his best to mop up the sweat. He doesn’t meet those leonine eyes. He feels angry, angry as usual, like it’s all coming to a head. He can scent Lannister’s cologne—it’s less personal if he doesn’t use his first name, he’s always told himself—even from here, that hint of orange groves and something spicy, something dark, something treacherous.

“Did you save the girl?” That smooth, cool voice teases him—Jon stiffens as he prepares Lannister’s drink. Scotch, neat. When they first met, Lannister didn’t drink at all, but time has fucked both of them up.

Jon thinks of the redheaded girl in the tiny gold dress, kneeling on the sidewalk, reeling. She and her friend were two of the silliest girls he had ever seen. Two of the saddest girls he had ever seen, too. 

“She said you looked like her ex-boyfriend’s mum,” Jon says instead, pouring the scotch, still turned away from the man. He hears Lannister snigger, and he braces himself before turning to face him, sliding the glass of gold across the polished wood. Their fingers brush, and Jon finally meets Lannister’s eyes, almost as golden as the scotch, over the glass. The bar is so dimly lit yet even so Lannister's eyes glow, almost feral, and Jon feels that familiar clench of desire, of  _need,_ of something like what he imagines withdrawal is like. Lannister's lips twitch, his eyes raking over Jon's face. He knows what he'll say, later, when they're both breathless and drenched in sweat.  _You need to shave,_ he'll gasp, his strong hand gripping Jon's jaw, running his thumb possessively over Jon's chin.

 _Why_ does he want this man?

He’s never wanted any other man.

 _But,_ he reminds himself, as he watches, entranced, as Lannister’s lips curve into that knowing smirk— _there are no men like Jaime Lannister_.

“Then I know who she is,” Lannister finally says, toying with the glass. His fingers are elegant yet strong. His suit is still perfectly crisp, his shirt as white as his teeth, but he’s got five o’clock shadow. Jon knows what Lannister’s stubble feels like against his skin.  _You need to shave, too,_ he'll say back, his skin still on fire from the friction of Lannister's stubble against his skin.

He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t steal or lie or cheat. He doesn’t gamble, he doesn’t do drugs.

 _My one vice,_ he soothes himself. “Sansa Stark,” he says softly, and something in Jon breaks.

“Stark?” His mouth is dry.

“Your cousin…if we’re right.” Lannister tips back the glass. “Joff was dating her, last I heard.”

“Not anymore,” Jon says numbly. "She said, 'ex.'" He feels sick, and falls silent. 

“I take it the detective _didn’t_ have anything,” Lannister deduces. Jon is grateful that it’s still early; grateful that the evening rush hasn’t hit, yet.

“Finish your drink,” Jon says, turning away.

 _My one vice,_ he reminds himself, feebly.

“I thought we were stopping this,” Lannister says behind him, a teasing, sly voice. Jon turns back and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, and Lannister laughs—even his laugh is mesmerizing—before finishing his scotch.

“I don’t remember you asking at all,” he remarks when he slams the glass back down. His voice is rough from the burn of the scotch and Jon feels another throb of desire. It makes him think of the way he can make Lannister gasp. “I’ll be waiting.”

Jon waits a few moments, then calls for Sam to spot him before slipping off.

In the darkness of the cramped, narrow storeroom, Lannister is already there, shrugging off his jacket, but Jon stops him and slams him against the wall.

But Lannister is always the one in charge, _really,_ and he lets Jon kiss him for just one electric moment before gripping him and throwing him back against the opposite wall. They knock over a cardboard box and something shatters, but neither man pays it any mind. The force knocks the breath from Jon as his back hits the wall, and then Lannister— _Jaime,_ he lets himself think for one burning moment of relief—steals the last of his breath with one searing kiss. He’s already throbbing for him, wants to rip Lannister’s fine suit off him, but Lannister always takes his time, and his hands are on Jon’s jaw, guiding him for another long, slow kiss.

“I thought I’d’ve found something by now,” he confesses, against Lannister’s lips; confesses the raw pain. Lannister’s hand fists in his hair.

“I know,” he says quietly, then kisses him again, painfully hard. “Were you jealous the other night? When it looked like I might take your cousin home?” That sly, teasing tone. Jon thinks of the redhead—his _cousin,_ Sansa Stark—again, how she knelt on the sidewalk. She had smelled sweet, like girly drinks and girlish perfume, her hair tickling his skin. The sadness radiating from her had been profound; he had lay awake all night after sending her home, unable to take his mind off how such a silly girl could be so very sad. "I might have done it. I might still do it. If I see her again."

 _My cousin,_ he thinks again, with horror. _If what Jaime says is true._

“Stop talking,” he grits out, then wrenches free of Lannister and forces him against the wall, even as he feels those strong hands fisting in his hair, pushing him down.

“Fine—your mouth’s going to be busy anyway,” he promises as Jon sinks down, kneeling, coming level with Lannister's crotch. 

Jaime Lannister was the only one to ever tell him the truth—about his parents, about Jaime’s son, about anything—and perhaps, Jon thinks, as he takes Lannister into his mouth, that is why he craves Jaime Lannister. The truth is sharp but lovely, as burning and golden as scotch. He hears him gasp; his grip tightens painfully in Jon's hair, and he pulls, just enough. "I might still do it," Lannister grounds out. "Maybe I'll let you join. I saw you trying not to look at her." 

 _My cousin,_ Jon thinks, and feels another clench of desire as Lannister pulls on his hair again. 


	2. Candy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this went on a bit longer than I intended, so now it's three chapters.

Sansa is shopping in Harrods, wandering through fragrance, when she sees the lion man—Jaime Lannister—again.

He's wearing a dark suit and strolling alongside a woman as tall as he is. She's striking, with her height and athletic stature, but not pretty: her blonde hair is short and fine and too thin and is looking ragged thanks to the rain outside. She's wearing an ill-fitting suit that is too short, and cut unfashionably, revealing dated-looking, square-toed boots that must have been purchased in the nineties. She is clearly outraged about something, and Jaime Lannister grins as they walk and she rages and rants.

"—no, I just don't understand why we have to do this bloody stupid thing. Can't we just forget the holiday entirely? It's not even a real holiday! And I thought the one single advantage of being unattached was avoiding it!" she is ranting as they peruse Chanel fragrances.

"I could see you in Chanel," Jaime teases, ignoring her, and holds up a bottle of No 5. "Classic. Invented for the new, modern woman—"

"—And _why_ do you even know that," the woman asks in exasperation. She snatches it out of his hand, and smells it before retching and slapping it back on the shelf. "Good god it smells like my grandmother."

“Don't you remember Olenna ranting about the campaign for it, how clever it was?”

“I didn’t know you paid any attention to what Olenna says,” the woman replies primly.

Jaime is laughing at her, and, hidden behind a stand of Prada Candy, Sansa marvels at how different, friendly, familiar he seems with this woman—nothing like the cold cruel beautiful man in the bar that night. The perfume is giving her a headache and she moves to slink off and out of sight, but too late—Jaime Lannister is looking at her.

A flash of recognition through his leonine eyes stills her in her tracks and the corner of his lovely mouth lifts in half-amusement. He doesn't even look surprised. The woman he's with follows the direction of his gaze and she spots her as well.

"Um. Hello," Sansa blurts, straightening and feeling her face flush. She's always hated her milkmaid's complexion—it gives every damn feeling away—and usually she wears enough foundation to hide the blush. But she was wearing tinted moisturizer today—her skin is still rebelling after her rough night out—and it basically melted off in the rain and mist. Her face feels hot and greasy and she hates looking less than perfect on any given day but especially under the hot gaze of this man. She's wearing her favorite pink shirtdress and trench but she might as well be naked.

"Long time no see," Jaime observes. Sansa wants to tell him that she almost married his nephew, that his twin sister treated her so cruelly that she often cried herself to sleep over the hidden barbs, that she knows he is estranged from his family but does not know why—no one ever referred to him in all of her years of dating Joff—and that she sees more of Joff in him than she ever saw in Joff's father, a bloated dark-haired ex-footballer named Robert, but of course she cannot say any of this.

"Why do you know this child?" the woman asks furiously, scowling at him. "What have you done now?"

 _Child._ She ought to be flattered—it means she looks young, which culture tells her is a win—but she can't help but recoil from the sting. It's unintentional—this woman is clearly a kind woman, a woman with morals—but still: ouch.

"I bought her and her friend drinks because the bartender wouldn't serve them," he says plainly, "and then I attempted to leave, but she followed me outside before I could call a cab." The woman looks skyward as if praying to some higher power. "And then the bartender came out and policed her," he recalls, smirking. "Responsible young fellow, that Jon Snow."

"Oh, lovely. You've been terrorizing him again, have you? I thought you said you'd stopped that,” the woman scolds. She turns to Sansa with a fixed smile. "Be thankful for Mr. Snow—this idiot is a complete lout." She stomps on his foot and Jaime lets out a yelp of surprise. The goofiness is in such contrast with his cool image that she finds herself giggling. The woman looks pleased with herself—pleased that she made Sansa laugh.

Sansa likes her. She likes her openness, her strangely stiff sense of decorum. She even likes her flat, lanky hair and ill-cut suit—this is a woman who does not care if her outfit makes the right impression. She's too busy doing work.

And suddenly Sansa thinks of her enormous closet of pretty clothes and her going-nowhere career—she thought she’d be married by now, truthfully—and her desperation for approval, for any man’s approval, and she quite suddenly feels more foolish than she has ever felt in her life. This is a woman in charge. Sansa has never been in charge of anything. It never occurred to her to want to be, to try to be. And she realizes she is is envious of this woman, with her bad hair and bad shoes. She is powerfully jealous of this woman, with her agency and her strange, practical confidence, and her sense of power.

 _I want power_ , she thinks feebly.

“I—well, I am thankful for him, actually,” she admits uncomfortably. “He paid for me and my friend’s cab home,” she explains to Jaime, whose lovely eyes narrow into knowing crescents. He smiles and she sees those sharp canines.

“He _would_ ,” he says, almost derisively. “Always the white knight.”

“Thank goodness for white knights,” the woman interjects. She holds up her wrist, showing a plain, businesslike watch. “And we’ve got to get moving if we’re going to find an appropriate present in time.” She smiles perfunctorily at Sansa. “Have a nice day,” she says politely, before turning and marching off in the direction of makeup. Jaime Lannister lingers.

“I know you—well, _of_ you,” he corrects lightly.

The rest of Harrods seems to melt away. Sansa grips her pursestrap in clammy hands.

“And I know of you,” she replies, her tongue thick. He’s studying her, and his gaze is so direct that she feels he is grazing his hands over her, lingering in places that make more heat rise to her cheeks, and between her legs.

"Jaime," calls the woman exasperatedly.

"I-I'm sorry, for the other night," Sansa says quickly. "I was..." she hesitates, sensing how even her apology is foolish, and thin, and as embarrassing as her drunkenness. "Well, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable," she finally settles on, looking away quickly, then back to Jaime. His smooth, clever lips twitch.

"If I'd asked you home like you seemed to want," he begins, "you wouldn't have known what to do with yourself. You didn't make me uncomfortable at all. You wouldn't be able to." He turns away without another word, and leaves Sansa standing there amid all of the too-sweet perfumes, in her pretty pink dress, her face burning with shame and an unspeakable need caught in her throat, flapping and trembling like a moth.

 _I want power,_ she thinks again.

* * *

It's happened again. They don't usually end up in Jaime's flat—or in Jon's, for that matter; Jaime has never seen Jon's flat and doesn't particularly care to—but he supposes they were both tired tonight, both in need of a place to lay down afterwards. Jon's back is to Jaime. He's asleep. He never snores; his sleep is like death.

Jaime is on his back, his sweat-slicked skin beginning to cool so that he is chilly, but he's too tired to reach forward and draw up the covers.

He misses Cersei. He misses her fragrant skin and long, thick golden hair through his fingers, and the way she owned him, the way she would always take things just barely too far, blurring pleasure and pain and making him forget himself inside of her.

Jon is so vastly different from Cersei in every single way that Jaime wonders if that's the only reason he ever wanted him in the first place. He cannot be compared to Cersei, and that is what makes him safe. Jaime touches Jon's back, running his hand over the lean muscle.

"I saw your cousin," he says, his voice rough. He always loses his voice after a night with Jon. Jon shifts and burrows further into the pillows.

"Is she my cousin?" he asks sleepily, doubtfully. He's still angry that the investigator hasn't turned up with anything, any proof of who Jon is. But Jon's awake now, even though he pretends to be falling back to sleep. The air is electric.

"In Harrods," Jaime explains, ignoring the question. Sansa Stark was standing there by a display of a perfume called Candy in a pink dress, as pink as her lips, and he had wanted to laugh at how fitting it was. She looked like she would taste like sugar, Jaime thinks. Almost too sweet for his tastes and yet there's something appealing about that, too—but maybe he's just in desperate need of a woman. Maybe he's been fucking just Jon for too long. Maybe it's just how she was looking at him—so openly, unabashedly desperate for him. Jon tries to hide it—most people try to hide it—but she's just so sweet that she can't. He wonders if her cunt tastes sweet. 

And anyway, Jon seems defensive about her, and that's interesting at the very least. It's something different. He knows Jon isn't interested in men either, knows this is a lark—a deeply twisted lark that's gone on too long—for him too. 

"Leave her alone," Jon says at last, his voice hard. "She's young."

"She's your age, or close," Jaime counters. Jon is twenty years younger than him.

"You know what I mean." He sounds weary.

Jaime imagines her pretty pink lips on him and feels heat gathering in his groin. He thinks of her pretty pink lips on Jon, closing around Jon's cock, and feels himself getting hard again, and he digs his fingers into Jon's skin, guiding the younger man to roll over onto his back. Jon resists, at first, and then obeys, rolling onto his side. His eyes look almost black in the darkness, and his cheeks are still flushed; his wild dark hair clings to his temples and jaw. Jaime might not care for men but Jon is the exception, Jon is beautiful. Jon props himself up and their eyes meet. There's always an edge to Jon; he always puts up just the right amount of a fight before giving in and letting Jaime do what he wants.

Without looking away, Jaime reaches down. Jon is hard and pulsing in his hand, and breathes harder when Jaime moves his hand. Jaime allows himself a slow grin.

"Don't worry; I was thinking about her too," Jaime says. Pink soft lips and soft pale curves barely contained by a cheap gold dress; he'd watched Jon's dark eyes try not to linger on all that soft, pale skin exposed, begging for touch. He touches Jon the way he knows Jon likes to be touched, sliding along his length with just the right amount of force, and watches Jon let out a short breath through clenched teeth, closing his eyes and falling back onto his back. Jaime rolls onto his stomach and shifts between Jon's legs. It doesn't usually happen like this, and the change is undeniably strange. He watches the muscles in Jon's abdomen tense and shift as he takes Jon into his mouth; he hears Jon let out the softest gasp. His hand rests on the back of Jaime's head; he's always gentle.

Jaime pulls back slightly. He's feeling dangerous tonight. "You want her to do this to you?" he asks softly, and suddenly Jon is gripping his hair, pushing his head back down, and Jaime's heart begins to race as he throbs almost painfully against the mattress beneath him.

"No," he grits out, "I want to fuck her while she does this to you."

* * *

The package is waiting at her flat the next day when she comes home from work. She might've tried it on in the shop but wanted to do it in private, and she rips off the tape with nervous, clumsy fingers. In front of her long mirror, she holds up the purchase.

It's a black dress. It's tea-length, hitting at her calves at just the right length to show the beginning of the swell, and sleeveless, and rather high-necked. But it's backless, so that she can't wear a bra with it, and when she slips the cool crepe over herself, her nipples harden, bare against the fabric. She reaches and zips it up as she stares at her reflection.

Joff would have hated it. It's a grown-up woman's dress. It's dramatic and avante-garde and doesn't make use of her legs or her breasts in the way she's used to flattering them. But she wanted it. Then she turns, watches her hair spill over her shoulder and graze her naked back softly,

It's a dress for red lipstick and dark music and men who know how to wear suits. It's a dress for the sort of woman that could make Jaime Lannister uncomfortable.

And then her hands fall and she is Sansa again, a silly girl in a costume, and she feels ridiculous.

She unzips the dress, slides it down her hips, and throws it on her bed in a fit of shame. She stands there, arms crossed over her breasts, staring at the heap of cool black crepe, wondering what it is she really wants.

Is it power?

Is it to be desired?

Is it revenge against Joff?

Or is it simply something primal, something animal: to feel the golden stubble of a beautiful man leave her skin raw and stinging; to feel herself throb with desire in a way she's only ever read about; to be heady and drunk with lust instead of scared or anxious or ashamed?

She looks at her reflection in the long mirror, how she cradles herself to hide herself. She's always been hyperaware of all of her own imperfections, always has done everything—diets, exercise, creams, treatments—to fix herself, to make herself as beautiful as possible for Joff, and now it's all been a waste and she cannot help but think that that woman she saw in Harrods with Jaime Lannister—that woman who made Jaime Lannister look like he was made of light—has never, not even once, forked over half a month's rent for something intended to "fix" herself.

She drops her hands. Her breasts are fuller than she's ever liked, and sit lower than she's ever liked; she's always wondered if Joff liked them or not because he never once said anything, and now her fears seem so silly.

 _You didn't make me uncomfortable at all,_ Jaime Lannister had said. _You wouldn't be able to._

In a mad rush she finds herself ripping the tags off the black dress. Fuck it. Fuck everything. Fuck Joffrey and his cheating; fuck all of the times she's ever diminished herself; fuck stupid tacky gold dresses and desperation and fear and crying about being rejected.

She slides the dress on again, and zips it up once more.

What if it _is_ just lust that she wants? What if it is just an animal, primal reaction? She tosses her hair experimentally, pretending to be a woman who knows what she wants. The woman in the mirror's hair is burnished copper and her eyes are dark and she's too tall and too busty and her dress is too long—but she drinks scotch and makes eye contact with handsome men fearlessly and she can make Jaime Lannister uncomfortable.

It might be a costume, she thinks as she turns again and looks over her shoulder, to admire the pale expanse of her skin on her back. But it's what she wants, and what's wrong with that?

The next day, she stands differently at work. Taller, prouder. Her voice is stronger, and her boss looks at her with something like surprise, but says nothing of the change. It's a costume, but it's what she wants, too, and she feels a rush of adrenaline, like what she imagines heroin must feel like, as she leaves work. Her heart is racing, and she feels set aglow, as tall as the clouds, and she feels the eyes of others on her as she walks, back straight and eyes fierce, to the Tube.

On impulse, she buys a bottle of scotch on the way home. In her dark flat, she pours herself a few fingers of it in one of her pretty hobnail glasses—she picked them out because they made her think of Snow White, and they were never meant to hold scotch—and, wearing the dress, she tosses it back. It burns, makes her throat tighten and her eyes water, like she's choking on smoke, but then it hits the very pit of her belly, and she slams the glass down, breathing rough and deep.

She undresses in her bedroom and leaves the dress in a seductive heap on her floor, and drops onto her bed. Surrounded by the chaos of London rush hour traffic, she watches the light shift and pattern on her walls and ceiling as she slides her hands down her body. She thinks of Jaime Lannister, thinks wicked things, things she's never allowed herself to think of before. She thinks of sliding down his body, of kissing him _there_ , of feeling him turn hard in her hand—or her mouth. She thinks of his golden stubble against the soft flesh of her thigh, thinks of his tongue against her—against her cunt, and she tastes the word, flushing at its power, and moves her fingers against her cunt in a way she has only ever done in shame, quickly and often in that twilight before falling asleep. But she is wide-awake, and her other hand is on her breast, circling the soft pink bud and feeling it harden, imagining Jaime Lannister taking that too into his mouth, grazing his sharp teeth over it, blurring the line between pleasure and pain.

It's a costume but it's what she wants.

She comes with a soft gasp, trembling and bucking against her own hand, and sinks back into her mattress, returning to reality. Her mouth is dry and the traffic is loud, and this is not enough.

On Friday, she takes the chance. She leaves work early, and drinks another finger of scotch, and takes a long candlelit bath, because it seems like something the woman in the black dress might do. She sprays on heady, musky perfume, perfume that makes her think of dark, cool forests and smokelit jazz clubs, and she does her hair in long waves and puts on red lipstick and steps, braless and knickerless, into her black dress.

She does not look like Sansa Stark.

And she returns to that bar, and steps into the cool darkness with her core tight and each step sure, but it's all a costume, because inside she is shaking and unsure. But the woman in the black dress is not unsure—she knows what she wants.

And it's Jon, the bartender, at the bar, and part of her wants to turn and run when they lock eyes from across the bar. _He is beautiful_ , she thinks once again, watching his grey eyes darken briefly. _Maybe I'll have him too._ Sansa Stark wouldn't think such a thing; Sansa Stark would think, _does he want me? How can I make myself prettier so that he wants me?_

The woman in the black dress takes long, slow strides to the bar. She'll order scotch; it doesn't matter that Jon already knows she doesn't know how to drink anything other than vodka sodas, because the woman in the black dress does not care if Jon thinks her foolish. Jon watches her every stride, his face unreadable in the dim golden light.

At last she reaches the bar and slides onto one of the counter stools. Her belly is tight and fluttering and that moth is trapped in her throat again but the woman in the black dress shrugs off her coat slowly, knows the dress strains against her breasts, doesn't worry if her breasts look high enough.

She meets Jon's grey eyes, and feels her neck grow hot, but the woman in the black dress does not look away.

"Scotch, neat," she says softly. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, about to protest, and for the briefest flash—she swears it, she swears she saw it—his gaze flicks down then up again, and he turns away, shaking his head. She watches him reach up to one of the shelves and take down the bottle of liquid gold, and allows herself to admire the way his lean forearms shift and twist sinuously with the movement.

He turns back and slides the glass across the bar to her, his dark eyes wary. Their fingers brush as she takes the glass, and then she hands him her card, never looking away. _He's got a pretty mouth_ , she thinks, and feels her neck grow warm again and her mouth go dry.

"Don't lose it this time," he says shortly, taking the card and turning away from her. She toys with telling him to shut up, to mind his own business, but she stays silent, watching him openly. She wants to ask him if Jaime is often here on Friday nights, wants to ask him so many things, but she stays silent and continues to watch him as she sips the scotch.

And then there's a burst of orange groves and gasping sex and sharp teeth closing over her soft skin and stubble scraping her skin, and the most beautiful man in the world is sliding onto the stool next to her.

"Scotch, neat," Jaime Lannister says to Jon, and there's something sly in his voice, and he won't look at Sansa.

She wonders if he is wearing a costume, too. She wonders if they're all wearing costumes, all finding excuses to go after the animal, primal things that they want. Jon's pretty lips are pressed together as he meets Jaime's lion eyes. They hold the gaze for just a beat too long, and then Jon turns away and slams the bottle of scotch down on the counter to pour Jaime's drink, earning looks of surprise from the patrons around them.

"Have you come to make me uncomfortable?" Jaime Lannister murmurs, as Jon turns back to him with the glass and slides it across the bar.

Sansa doesn't look at him. She fights the urge to fidget.

What would the woman in black say?

"No," she says quietly. "I came to have a drink."

He laughs softly, and then he's turning toward her, slightly. He clinks his glass against hers, and his knuckles brush the back of her hand. The contact is electric; it's a rush of heroin.

"Cheers to that," he muses. "Snow, have you seen her dress? It's a hell of a dress." His voice is teasing, and sly, and she sees a flush appear on Jon's cheeks as a muscle leaps in his handsome jaw.

Jon stalks away from them to attend to another patron, and they are briefly left alone.

She knows what she wants. And anyway, she tells herself, tightening a trembling hand around her glass, it's not her asking for it. It's the woman in black.

"I w-want you," she confesses, her voice so soft even she can barely hear it against the rush of cool, feathery electronic music. She hates herself for how she stumbles but moves past it; the woman in black would not be ashamed of a stammer.

Jaime Lannister does not speak right away. She glances at him quickly, out of the corner of her eye, and his lips are slightly curved.

"You're inexperienced," he says at last, and she fights down a spike of shame, of humiliation, of childish anger. She tosses her hair and drinks the last of her scotch.

"Maybe I am," she admits as she sets down the empty glass, feeling his eyes follow the movement. "But I still know what I want."

Jaime laughs again, loudly this time, and she watches his eyes follow Jon's form the way hers did, watches his lips curve, revealing those sharp teeth, watches his eyes burn and darken as Jon turns around and approaches them again. She watches Jon meet Jaime's eyes, watches him flush and look away, and she realizes something, like a bell ringing in her head.

 _I thought you stopped that,_ the woman in Harrods had said to Jaime, when he'd mentioned Jon. 

 _They've fucked_ , she realizes with a rush of something. She watches Jon glance back at Jaime so reluctantly, as though his chin is held by an invisible hand, as though he is being forced. He bites his pretty lip and Jaime licks his lip quickly, a blur of movement that she almost misses. _Several times_ , she adds mentally, but it's not in horror.

There's a hot clench of something as she realizes something else.

The woman in black would say it. "I want," she begins slowly, and she can't quite straighten out the quiver of embarrassment in her voice, "to see you kiss him, too."

She risks a look at Jaime, her heart pounding, and he looks at her at last, scotch-golden gaze sliding to her so slowly, running up her body, lingering on her breasts just a beat too long before finally reaching her lips, then her eyes.

His lovely lips are curving into the most dangerous smirk.

"Snow," he says, without looking away. "We're going back to my flat. Join us."

Sansa does not dare look away; does not dare see Jon's reaction to what she has just signed herself up for.

"No," comes a stubborn voice. Jaime's lips twitch again but still he does not look away. "Sansa," she hears in a softer voice, one that feels like lips on the back of her neck, and she has a flash of Jaime in front of her and Jon behind her, pushing aside her heavy red hair to kiss her neck, and she feels damp heat unfurling between her legs. "This isn't—"

"—Don't," she interrupts, still gazing at Jaime. "If you don't want to join, then don't; but don't tell me what to do."

"He wants to join," Jaime promises her. Sansa finally looks away, and Jon is staring at her with his brows drawn together, and there it is again--a flash of something electric that is so hastily replaced by bland, gentlemanly concern.

"Don't," she tells him again. "I'll need to close out. His drink is on me, too."

His gaze hardens and his mouth is a tight, straight line as he turns back to the register and closes out her tab with swift, tight motions. When he hands her the receipt to sign, he is all silent, repressed rage, and she wonders if part of him is jealous that she's going home with Jaime. Even that thought excites her. 

She slides off the barstool and feels Jaime holding up her coat. She slides into it, feeling his form grazing her backside as she is enveloped in a rush of his scent. They look back at Jon one last time.

"You know where I live," Jaime reminds him, but Jon is looking at Sansa.

"You shouldn't," he warns her bluntly.

"But I want to," she counters, and she feels a strong hand at her back.

Out in the cold, damp night, they stand on the sidewalk and Sansa wonders what she has done. Jaime's hand is still on her back, and she experimentally leans against it as he hails a cab with his other hand. In a flash of headlights that are haloed with rain, he turns to her, grips her hair, and gives her a bruising kiss. He tastes like scotch and mint and his golden stubble scrapes against her chin. When he pulls back, slightly, his handsome thin lips are curved against hers.

"Three...two..." he counts down softly against her lips, and she hears a cab screech to a stop beside them, and then footsteps. Jon is standing beside them, slightly out of breath, and Sansa pulls back from Jaime, her heart pounding. Has he really...?

"You drunkenly rambled, last week, about how upset you were that you'd given up your virginity," Jon tells her now, looking furious, "as I held your head over the toilet, though I'm sure you don't remember it."

His gaze is so direct, so fierce. The woman in black would not be ashamed, but Sansa's eyes burn so she blinks away the threat of tears and looks at him directly.

"If you're not going to join us," she begins as coldly as she can, though her voice is shaking, "then fuck off."

Sansa Stark wouldn't have said it. Sansa Stark never used such language.

The cabbie rolls down the window behind them.

"Just a moment," she hears Jaime say to him. Sansa cannot look away from Jon. He is all tense energy, fists clenched and jaw tense and eyes burning.

"What does it matter to you, anyway?" she asks him now, almost desperately, and finally Jon looks away quickly.

"He likes red hair," Jaime interjects, "and he's jealous of both of us."

"I'm not—"

"And he might be your cousin," Jaime suddenly adds, and then there's a gloved hand closing over Sansa's throat as she stares at Jon.

"What?"

Jaime and Jon are staring each other down.

"There's no proof," Jaime continues, gazing at Jon, "but he might be Lyanna Stark's son."

And then he looks to her. "Does that bother you?"

There's no proof. No proof, and anyway, he's one of the most beautiful men she's ever seen—not counting Jaime, of course. And she wants this.

Sansa swallows, staring hard at Jon.

 _There's no proof,_ she reminds herself. Maybe the thought is just a costume, dressing up the truth to hide it so that she can go after what she really wants, which is Jon's soft, pretty lips on her cunt and Jaime's teeth on her neck. 

"No," she says at last, watches Jon's gaze sharpen as he shifts backward.

"Don't go home with him. You're being ridiculous," he tries again. "Not one week ago you were—"

"—I'm going home with him," she interjects, feeling furious, and the cabbie leans on his horn behind them, making them all jump.

"Isn't it so much better when they disobey?" Jaime asks Jon, his voice silky, sensuous, and even in the darkness Sansa can tell Jon is blushing again.

Jon stares at her, and something shifts again, and now he's looking at her in a way that makes her belly clench with desire, makes electricity crackle along her skin, hardening her nipples and releasing damp heat between her legs. She watches him let out a long breath, watches him settle into his decision.

"Get in the cab," he orders her, at last, his voice steely. 

 


	3. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made this 4 parts now because I'm long-winded AF. This is honestly just filth.

Sansa follows Jaime into the cab; they become a tangle of limbs in the darkened cab, but Jon doesn't join them. He hovers by the open door, looking in as Jaime gives the cabbie his address. 

"I have to get someone to cover for me," he says, more to Jaime than to her, and it annoys her that he's talking across her like this—the woman in the black dress would not tolerate that—but then he's shutting the door, dissolving into the inky night, and Jaime the lion man is all hers. She looks at him and his lips twitch. One arm is carelessly slung along the top of the seats, and the air is thick with the scent of his cologne. 

"Well?" he prompts, arching his brows, and he bites his lip so briefly before smiling. Even that tiny motion is beautiful, and her cunt gives a quick pulse of need, and she finds herself reaching for him anyway, in spite of her fears.

She wants to admit she's never done this before—whatever this is—and she wants to be reassured, to be told she's pretty, but she blazes on anyway, and clumsily kisses his jaw. His stubble is rough and scrapes her chin, and the hand that he places on the back of her head is certain—as is the tongue he slips past her lips.

She's never been kissed like this, like she's being engulfed. His sharp teeth are grazing her lower lip, and she faintly hears the cabbie make a disapproving noise and it only spurs her on: she grips Jaime's collar, pulling herself to half-straddle him as they kiss, and she feels herself blushing, heat razing along the nape of her neck and turning her hair damp. Her breasts brush against his hard chest and her dress rides up, bunching around her hips, and she's more aware than ever that she's not wearing any knickers. She wonders if he would prefer her with or without her knickers, then decides that the woman in the black dress would not care.

She wants him to grip her hips—the thought comes to her in a burst—but he keeps one hand on the back of her head, one on her jaw, in a frustratingly limited touch. He's doing little more than reacting to her.

The woman in the black dress will have to ask for what she wants, but Sansa doesn't know exactly what she wants, and Sansa has always wanted to be with a man who just _knows,_ who draws out the wants and desires from dark places, wants and desires that she doesn't know she has. She thinks Jaime must know—or else, what is the fine cologne and sleek suiting and clever eyes all for?—and that he won't simply do to her what she wants, that he won't simply read her mind is infuriating.

"We're here," the cabbie is saying grumpily, and belatedly Sansa realizes they've pulled to a stop. They're somewhere in Knightsbridge; in the wet night she can see the deep sash windows and quiet street around them. She reaches a shaking hand for her purse, but Jaime is already pushing past her and handing the cabbie the fare. His arm grazes her breast and she feels her skin prickle at the contact, the buds tightening in anticipation of his touch, and it takes her a moment to realize she has to get out of the cab first.

On unsteady feet she stumbles onto the pavement, breathless and embarrassed as she watches Jaime slide with ease out after her. The cab pulls away with a rip of tires, glad to be rid of his frisky passengers, and then they're standing on the sidewalk, and Sansa feels a clench of fear.

It's really happening.

Can she really do this?

She and Jaime regard each other there on the sidewalk; his hair is mussed and there's a strange moment where he meets her eyes and she thinks he looks sad, but it's erased and replaced by something bordering on a leer.

"You look like you're having doubts," he remarks, shoving his hands in the pockets of his fine wool coat. He's silhouetted by a street lamp, a golden man turned silver by rainy moonlight and streetlights. Sansa clutches her own coat round her form and exhales, watching it cloud in the wet cold night before her. Suddenly she can't look at him. He's still just reacting to her; he's still just going along with this. She's the one driving this, and she isn't sure she wants to be. It feels wrong to be in charge, to be the one pushing them towards fucking. That romantic part of her still wants it to be like in the black and white movies, where a man loses his mind over her with need and kisses her chastely, barely restraining himself, gasping that he's only ever loved her.

Jaime will not be that man; as much as he looks like he could be, she knows that she will not drive him wild with need. He is all cool control, separated and distant from whatever is happening between them.

And then a dark part of her wonders if he's so in control when he's with Jon Snow. That dark part of her wants to see, wants to know.

"D-do you actually want me?" she blurts out, then looks at him again. The leer fades and he's studying her thoughtfully.

"Yes," he admits at last.

"But...but what about Jon?" she asks haplessly, casting around. "Isn't that...a thing?" she finishes lamely. Jaime looks away, and she's surprised that he doesn't make some snarky remark. She watches him let out a short breath.

"Yes," he says again at last. "The two aren't mutually exclusive. Obviously."

"Have you two ever..." she lingers. She can't say the words. _Shared a woman. Had a threesome._ It's too vulgar, too pedestrian, for whatever is happening, for whatever is about to happen.

"No." He lets out a short, callous laugh. "Look, if you're having doubts, then go home. I'm not going to reassure you, or make you feel better about this, but I'm not going to force you, either." He reaches into his pocket and takes out a set of keys, then walks to the door. "If you actually want this to happen, you can come inside. If not, then go home."

He turns his back on her and walks up the slate steps to his front door. She's standing there shivering and humiliated, yet helplessly appreciating the lean lines of his body all the while.

"I'm coming," she blurts out, then stumbles after him. It occurs to her that she could make a vulgar joke of those words, but she's too busy pushing Jaime into his dark foyer and kissing him.

He accepts the kiss and steadies her.

"Tell me what you want," he says against her lips as he pushes the door shut behind her. They stumble against the wall in the darkness. She smacks hard against his chest, gripping his shirt in her fists and forcing him against the wall.

"Touch my breasts," she gasps before she can lose her momentum, and then he's walking her backward so her own back is hitting the wall of the narrow foyer, and his angular hands slide underneath her coat, along her waist, then graze over the bare skin of her back, then to her sides, tantalizingly slipping along the edge of the fabric, tickling the soft flesh just beyond the sides of her breasts, and her buds grow taut with anticipation as she lifts her arms up and slides them around his neck, to give him better access. She can feel him smirking against her lips. "Tell me what you want, then," she tries then, as his palms once again brush against her skin, not quite where she wants them to be.

He doesn't say anything; instead he smooths his hands over her breasts, his thumbs circling the tightened buds through the fabric and then brushing over them, making her throb between her legs. She breathes against his neck, closing her eyes and sinking into his touch, biting her lip as he pinches the hardened peaks almost painfully. 

She has another flash, then, of Jaime writhing against Jon. "When you and Jon are—are _together_ ," she whispers, "which of you is ...on top?"

She doesn't even know if that's the right terminology. She pictures Jon pushing Jaime down and she feels wet heat trickle down her inner thigh.

"I am," Jaime says in a low, rough voice, the first sign that any of this has any effect on him, and he squeezes her breast just hard enough that it makes her gasp.

"Always?"

He's kissing along her neck as he pinches her hardened buds again.

"Always."

Her heart is pounding and her cunt is throbbing. She winds her fingers in his thick golden hair and pulls his head so she can whisper in his ear.

"I want to see him fuck you."

She has never said something so vulgar in her life and it burns just like a mouthful of scotch.

"That's not happening," he breathes, on the verge of a laugh, and she tightens her grip in his hair and she feels him stiffen.

The woman in the black dress wants—fuck it, _Sansa_ wants to see Jon push Jaime down and fuck him. Then she wants both of them to fuck her.

It's not ladylike. It makes no sense. It's not romantic. But it's what she wants.

And then a curious thing: she feels his hardness against her hip, and suddenly it all makes sense.

She pulls on his hair experimentally, holding her breath before biting on his ear, just barely too much, before she speaks: "yes, it is."

He lets out a ragged breath and grinds against her even as he's pulling off her coat. It falls to the floor and there's a rush of cool air against her bare arms, and he's unzipping her dress.

"No, it's not."

He's not so in control now. Something's changed. And she can't help but test it further. She pulls his hair again with one hand, and traces her other hand down, along his body, to his length, and she palms him through his trousers, then grips him—almost too tight. She feels him hiss against her skin.

"Yes, it is," she says once more. She almost can't breathe; the sudden sense of power is heady, too thick, like smoke in the air. "Make me come," she tries, the words clumsy on her tongue, and she doesn't even quite know what she wants him to do but he's sliding down her body, pulling her dress down, kissing her bared skin as he goes. His sharp teeth graze her breast and then his lips close around the pale pink bud, his strong hands gripping her hips painfully, just as she wanted him to do before, and her dress is bunched around her waist and her hands are fisted in his hair. 

Then his teeth graze the other peak and his hands are moving lower, pushing her dress down over her hips until it pools around her feet. She's naked save for her heels now and the cool crisp fabric of his shirt is brushing against her thighs and cunt. His lips close around the bud as fingertips meet her cunt, stroking teasingly along her slit, and for a moment she freezes in place, but then he sucks hard on her nipple as he slips a finger between her lips, and she melts for him. He releases her breast and then kisses downward, moving far too slowly, biting her hipbone on his way. 

* * *

 

The minute Jon gets back to the bar, he hides in the loo in the back—the single one, the one for staff, the one with an old chipped toilet and a single hanging bulb—and unzips his jeans and braces one hand against the wall in front of him as the other frees himself, already hard. 

He could see her breasts straining against that dress, and he could see Lannister looking at her breasts straining against that dress, and now he's thinking of Lannister's hands—he has perfect hands, angular and strong but still elegant—on Sansa Stark's breasts. He moves his hand quickly, angry that this is all it's taken to have him jerking himself off so desperately in the loo at  _work_ of all places, but then, Lannister's always had that effect on him, and  _fuck_ he wants to fuck Sansa Stark so badly. 

They'll have already started by the time he gets to Lannister's flat and maybe he'll walk in on them—maybe he'll have her on her knees, sucking him off the way he has Jon suck him off, or maybe he'll have her bent over his couch. The tiny loo is too warm and he's thinking of kissing her cunt while she sucks Jaime, and he's thinking of watching Jaime as he enters her, and then he's spilling into his hand and gasping, barely braced against the wall with one sweaty hand. 

* * *

 

No one has ever done this to her before; she ought to be more nervous but she's throbbing so painfully that it's hard to think too much, and instead she allows him to position one of her legs over his shoulder as his mouth—his clever, perfect mouth—moves over her cunt, kissing her mound. His fingers, slick with her desire, dig into her hips, guiding her to angle them for him, and then his tongue is running along her slit as his finger had before, and she can only lean against the wall, eyes closed as she struggles to balance, gripping his hair too tightly all the while. 

It isn't like anything she's ever done before. It's too much, and she feels dizzy, and then he slips two fingers inside her as he sucks on her clit and she lets out the most desperate noise—and then he does it again, sliding his fingers in and out, and then she's a whimpering mess as something begins to tighten, a coiling spring deep inside of her—

—And then the door opens. 

Jaime doesn't stop; he sucks harder, pumps his fingers faster, as Jon Snow slips into the darkened foyer and pauses, his grey eyes—black in the darkness—meeting Sansa's. He's wet from the rain, hair wild and clinging to his forehead and jaw, and he brings the scents of smoke and whiskey with him. She goes to cover herself, reflexively, but he reaches out a hand, and grips her wrist, stopping her. She can see his Adam's apple move as he swallows, staring at her. 

So her hands drop and she fists them in Jaime's hair again, gazing at Jon as he gazes at them, his eyes traveling down her body slowly, then rest on Jaime, who is still buried in her cunt. He does something with his teeth—just the barest graze against her clit—and then Jon steps forward and fists his hand in her hair at the back of her head, his grip rough, and kisses her, swallowing her gasp of surprise and agony and pleasure. 

He tastes like smoke and black coffee and the leather of his jacket is cool against her breast. She helplessly kisses back, gasping against his smooth lips as that spring coils further. She's rising, rising, rising—and then Jon pulls away and steps back, and she watches him shed his jacket as he watches Jaime. Even in the darkness she can see he's flushed, and then she looks down and can see him straining against his jeans. 

Jaime's grip on her hips tightens as though drawing her attention back to him, and she has another flash of what it might look like to see him kiss Jon, and then the spring snaps, and she is gasping and shuddering against Jaime's mouth, around Jaime's fingers, and she hears Jon whisper  _fuck._

She comes down as Jaime pulls away from her at last. His hair is wild from her grip and his eyes look dark with desire. Her leg slides from his shoulder as he pulls away, staring up at her. She watches him wipe his chin with the heel of his hand, then watches him look to Jon, who is leaning against the opposite wall. The devil is in his eyes as he gets to his feet. 

"Upstairs," he orders Jon, but before Jon can obey, he grips Jon by his wild dark hair and kisses him slowly, deeply, and pushes him against the wall, and all Sansa can think is that now Jon can taste her on Jaime's lips. Jaime lets go and breaks the kiss, and then a hand is closing round her wrist and Jon is pulling her up the narrow hardwood stairs to the bedroom. 

Jaime's bedroom is sparsely but elegantly decorated; it's easy to see that he comes from money and is extremely accustomed to wealth. The furnishings are simple but fine; all understated signs of wealth. But she has little time to admire the decorating, because the door shuts and then Jaime slams Jon against the locked door. "She wants to watch us fuck," he tells Jon before pressing a searing kiss to his mouth. Sansa leans against the wall, watching them, her desire sliding down her inner thigh. Jon pulls away from Jaime briefly. 

"Get on the bed," he tells her, and there's a moment's hesitation before he continues, "...and touch yourself." 

His voice is hard; it makes something flutter inside of her and she doesn't even want to disobey. She walks to the bed, wondering if they're watching her, then climbs onto the navy bedspread. She lays down as she watches Jaime palm Jon through his jeans and then move his hand, whispering something into Jon's ear. Jon is staring at her, gripping Jaime so hard that his knuckles are bleached. 

Never breaking eye contact, she props herself against the pillows, and is hit with a burst of Jaime's scent, and she slides her fingers between her legs. She's not ready yet, she knows it instinctively, but she likes the idea of Jon watching her while she does this, so she obediently slips her fingers up and down herself with one hand, and cups her breast with the other. Her breasts are still swollen from her orgasm, the skin flushed, and she watches Jon's eyes follow the movement as she circles her peak with her thumb. He lets out a low hiss: Jaime has unzipped his jeans and is touching his skin now, and she watches Jon bite his lip and lean his head back against the door. 

His desire, the hardness of his voice, the way Jaime looks as his perfect hand moves along Jon... It's making her feel adventurous. She slips a finger inside of herself and watches Jon's face. Nothing changes, so she slips a second finger inside herself and pumps in and out, the way Jaime did moments earlier, and experimentally lets out a soft whine. But then Jaime lets go of Jon and they're flipped: Jaime is against the wall now, watching her, and he's pushing Jon's head downward. Over the top of Jon's head, his eyes meet hers, and he offers an infuriating but gorgeous smirk. 

She hears a zipper, and then Jaime's hands are tightening in Jon's hair and he's closing his eyes, and it's his turn to gasp, and it is the hottest thing that she has ever seen, and the whine she lets out next is not faked. 

* * *

Jon's talented mouth is on him, and Sansa Stark is sprawled on his bed, hair splayed behind her and pooling between her perfect breasts—they were so full in his hands, the buds pink and puffy and pretty—as she begins touching herself in earnest, watching Jon suck him. In the darkness, with only street lamps to illuminate the room, her hair might almost be dark blonde, and he feels his cock twitch in Jon's mouth. 

Her change in demeanor—from the sweet, shy, helpless little girl to the woman pushing him down, telling him to make her come—is something he has been fantasizing about for so many years, something he hasn't been able to find since Cersei. He wants her to fuck him, wants her to push him down onto his bed and claw at his skin and yank on his hair and gasp his name in his ear as she rides him—but he also wants to watch Jon fuck her, wants to hear that archness, that command, in Jon's voice, that tone that he's seen Jon use elsewhere but  _never_ with him. 

He's going to come if he keeps this up. He pulls on Jon's hair, the way Sansa pulled on his hair, and Jon releases him agonizingly slowly. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes look black. He gets to his feet, and kisses Jaime softly, and Jaime distantly hears Sansa let out another soft gasp, and his cock twitches again as Jon pulls away. Both men look to the bed, where Sansa has paused and is staring at them with bated breath, her hair wild. 

"I didn't say you could stop." Jon's voice is quiet but still arch, still in charge, and Jaime bites back a smirk as he watches the younger man turn toward the bed where their prize waits. 

 


	4. Salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might add one more chapter to this. We'll see.

_My cousin_ , Jon thinks, staring at the girl on the bed. Her eyes are wide as he and Lannister approach her, and for all of her false bravado that she fanned out before, she looks appealingly hunted now, and there's a pulse of desire in his groin. What does it mean about him—that he likes how she edges backward slightly on the bed, that he likes how she looks up at him through soft lashes nervously, biting her pretty lip? Is this how Lannister feels when they're together, when he pushes Jon down onto his bed so forcefully? Like he alone is in possession of something that no one else can have? Like he alone can draw something out that has been so carefully hidden away, like secret declarations of love in a girl's diary?

Mere days ago he was holding this girl up on the sidewalk as she cried; mere days ago he was listening to her choke out sobs that she'd been ruined— _spoiled_ was the word she'd used—for giving up her body to her boyfriend. And now she's here, splayed on Jaime's bed, the air thick with the scent of her desire. Does she still feel ruined? Because she looks perfect to him.

It's been so long since he's been with a woman, been so long since he was the one in control. It's uncomfortable and he doesn't know what to do at first. Taking the lead means admitting to what you want; taking the lead means you know what you want and you've given it thought and sometimes that alone is hard to admit.

But then she averts her gaze shyly—the crack in her facade is becoming more visible; she doesn't know how to do this and underneath the cocktails and black heels she's a sheltered girl who's never known anything more than cheap, selfish groping and cheap pleas for desire and cheap cocktails—and he forgets his anxiety. He can do for her what Lannister has done for him. He can draw out her secrets, pretending to own them for himself. He knows what she wants; just as Lannister took him, pretending that all of his dark desires were his own, Jon can do the same for Sansa.

* * *

"Get on your hands and knees," Jon says quietly, and his voice brooks no argument—but Jaime is beside him with that lazy golden grin, distracting her, and she cannot help but think of what she promised him earlier. _That's not happening,_ he had gasped, his fingers inside of her.

"N-no." She hates how her voice shakes, and she watches Jon's brows rise in surprise. "I want you to fuck him first," she adds, her voice a rush. She can't believe what she's saying, and it takes all of her self-control not to let her voice rise up at the end and turn it into a question, into a plea.

"That's not happening," Jaime repeats carelessly with something just short of a scoff, and then he's crawling onto the bed, pushing her down, strong legs between hers, and his hand is on her shoulder as he pushes her, and she sinks back into the pillows under his weight—but she's come this far and she'll get what she came for. Besides, she wants to hear that tone in his voice again—when he's ragged with need and desperately defiant just before he caves.

She bites on his lip, sinks her teeth into the smooth flesh, and grips the front of his collared shirt in her fist and pulls hard before letting go.

"Yes, it is," she says, and then she hears the mattress creak with Jon's weight. She meets Jaime's eyes as she slowly unbuttons his shirt as he balances above her. His eyes look darker, and she gives an experimental tug on his shirt, the remaining buttons straining. She almost asks _is this alright_ , but then she decides _fuck it_ , and she pulls as hard as she can. The buttons fly and then Jaime is kissing her again, one hand on her jaw, kissing her like she's a ripe peach and he wants all of her, pushing her back into the pillows as she pushes his torn shirt off, then tugs at his undershirt, until all that smooth golden skin is hers. She digs her nails into the lean muscle of his upper back, drags them along his skin, and he groans into the kiss, pressing her down harder.

* * *

He's never done this before. He has always— _always_ —been the one to fuck Jon. He feels the younger man behind him, shifting on the mattress, his touch tentative at first. But Sansa is pulling on his hair again—fuck, she does it just like Cersei did—and she's rolling her hips against him so experimentally. She's so clumsy, so inexpert, yet the raw desire is powerful and she seems to be able to read his desire: just as he finds himself wishing she would bite his lip again like she did before, she does it again—this time even harder. There's a metallic _clink_ of Jon's belt behind him and he feels Jon's hand on his lower back, steadying them both. He's always liked Jon's hands: strong and calloused, the nails short.

He once watched Jon work on his motorbike, his competent hands covered in grease, and had realized belatedly that he had just been watching Jon's hands as he worked purely for the pleasure of it. He had thought at the time that he knew exactly what those hands felt like on his skin, just as competent and strong. Jon had been so put off that he had been watching him; the younger man had kept glancing back at him, his pretty lips twisting in bemusement, brows knit together. _Really?_ his expression seemed to ask. Jon never wasted a word when a look would do.

He'd been clean-shaven that day and he'd looked even younger, and hours later after Jaime had fucked him and Jon lay beside him, in that strange still deep sleep of his, Jaime had run his own hands over Jon's smooth jaw and sure hands. It hadn't been out of tenderness, so much as a wistfulness for youth, for all of the time Jon had ahead of him, and a grief for all of the youth that Jaime had squandered on someone who in the end had not chosen him. Jon had awoken in the night at Jaime's lazy touch, lights from London patterning across his face. As a rule they did not touch each other tenderly—neither man wanted to—but Jon seemed to understand that this was not tenderness; this was a different sort of need, one that had little to do with him, and had let Jaime kiss him, soft and slow, without fucking him. it hadn't been a kiss in the usual sense. Jaime had felt like he was trying to draw something from Jon, something that he had already used up but that Jon still had; as though by touch he could make it return to him. He had felt like he was trying to draw his soul out of him, his young soul with so many years ahead of him. He was trying to steal something from him and Jon had parted his lips and let Jaime try.

"Touch him," Jon orders from behind, and then her hands—so uncertain, so fumbling—are at his own belt, undoing it and then slipping down, and she pauses the kiss—is this the first time she's touched a man like this?—to grip his cock with unsure hands, so different from Jon's. They're soft and slender and hesitant—and then out of nowhere the grip tightens hard enough that he gasps. He can feel Jon pushing down his trousers and briefs, undressing him with rough, swift motions, and then those certain hands are on the small of his back again, and his stomach clenches. He feels Jon lean forward, feels his lips brush his shoulder. He's engulfed in Sansa's perfume, a perfume that is so heady and dark that he feels dizzy. He'd thought she would smell sweet like candy but she's put on this act—whatever it is—and the perfume is part of it. The heavy scent of cloves... he is thinking of Cersei again, whose fragrance trailed after her wherever she went, a lingering presence that overpowered everything, and when they kissed he'd be dizzy and would taste the wine on her tongue. But all he tastes on Sansa's tongue is the scotch she didn't know how to drink.

He hears the rattle of his nightstand drawer opening and closing; he hears the snap of the bottle cap but he has no time to consider it because Sansa is pushing his head down, in just the same way he pushed Jon's head down. He looks up to see her face, flushed and pretty, and she's biting her lip, looking so uncertain, but their eyes meet and he watches something change in her, and she's pushing him down harder.

"I want him to fuck you, then I want both of you to fuck me," she confesses, as he presses his mouth to her cunt again and hears her gasp and cry. Her lips are still swollen from the first time he went down on her. He knows she'll still be too sensitive but he grazes his teeth against her anyway, hears her whine in protest and attempt to shift away, but he grips her hips just as he feels Jon grip his hips, just as he feels cool wetness and then pressure at his backside. He feels Jon's sure, competent hands getting him ready to be fucked.

He would never do this, but for the fact that this woman who grips his hair like she's about to rip it out, who writhes shamelessly against him, who looks at him so naively, so defiantly, has willed it.

* * *

Jaime's tongue is too direct, but he won't let her move away, and all she can do is helplessly drop back against the pillows and clench her fists and writhe beneath his tongue. Jon's dark eyes are roving over her, and over Jaime's head their eyes meet. She watches in something like fascination as he slides a finger inside of Jaime—then she feels Jaime gasp against her cunt, feels his fingers dig painfully into her hips, so hard that she knows he'll leave bruises.

"Does it hurt?" she asks, almost afraid to hear the answer, and then Jon is pulling out and getting ready to take Jaime from behind.

"You'll find out," Jon warns, and then pushes inside, dark eyes never straying from her, and something in her flutters.

She _wants_ to find out—and what does that say about her?

The growl that Jaime lets out is animal. Jon's hands are on Jaime's hips now and she watches as Jon bites his lip and pushes further inside Jaime's arse, his abdominal muscles tensing and his chest flushing. He's beautiful, she thinks again. Jaime pulls away from her cunt; his hair is wild from her touch.

"I'll take you from behind," he tells her raggedly, "as payback." And his lips are curving, even as he digs his fingers into her hips and pulls her down the bed, so that she's under him again, and she feels his cock slide against her hip as he pins her beneath him and kisses her wildly, engulfing her. Jon's hand is on her leg, gripping her knee and holding it in place as she tilts her head back and arches her back, letting Jaime rake his teeth over the vulnerable flesh of her collarbone, her breasts mashed against his bare chest, their skin turning damp with sweat.

"That's enough; I need her now," she hears Jon gasp, and then suddenly everything is changing. She tries to dominate Jaime: she wraps her legs round his hips and feels his cock press against her cunt, but he flips them over so that she's on top, yet he's holding her hips too securely for her to move.

She feels soft lips on her shoulder; Jon is behind her, pushing her sweaty hair away from her neck and kissing her skin, and she can feel him brush against her backside, his cock slick with lube from fucking Jaime. Jaime's fingers are inside her, his thumb circling her clit, and then Jon's hands are cupping her breasts, his touch unbearably light and soft.

Jaime sits up so that her legs are wrapped around him as he continues to move his fingers in and out of her, and she grips his shoulders and tries to regain control, but she can't. This is a fantasy she has always tiptoed around, never acknowledging. What does it mean about her, that nothing can compare to the notion that one man—a beautiful man, a lion man—is pumping his fingers in and out of her while another man—another beautiful man—cups her breasts and teases the tender buds and whispers filth in her ear, filth she had not known he would be capable of?

And he's not just any man—he's her cousin, if it's true.

Why does that thought make her gasp and shudder, make her tighten around Jaime's fingers, make her rock back against Jon's slick cock brushing against the small of her back?

"I want her arse," Jaime says, and he slides another finger inside of her, and it's just short of painful, so she moans, reeling against him.

"You always do," Jon snarks, and to her surprise he pinches her nipple, hard. Jaime slides his fingers out of her and she whimpers at the feeling of sudden emptiness.

"Have you seen her arse? It's perfect," Jaime says, and then suddenly she's being flipped onto her back, then turned onto her stomach, and Jon is beneath her, gripping her hips the way Jaime did earlier. He takes something from the bedside table with a desperate hand that she belatedly realizes is a condom and she's ashamed: she didn't even think of that.

"Put it on me," Jon orders her, as he tears the packet open.

She pauses, staring at him, her chest heaving. Her cunt is still trembling from Jaime's rough treatment, and her mouth and breasts are sore, yet she still wants more. Jon is beneath her, and his smooth cock is just before her, his hard chest rising and falling rapidly. His cheeks are flushed and his lower lip is slightly pink. _He is beautiful_ , she thinks again, and she reaches up and twists her hair behind her head, her heart pounding and her hands clumsy and uncertain. She has an idea, and she wants to try it...

She takes the condom from him, their fingertips brushing, and presses it on his tip, watches his abdominal muscles tense again at her touch. What will he do if she does what she's thinking?

"Do you need a lesson on how to put on a rubber?" Jaime snarks behind her, but she ignores him and crawls down Jon's body, smoothing the condom along Jon's tip and watching him bite his pretty lip.

And then she closes her eyes and takes him in her mouth and lets the condom unroll beneath her lips, and she hears Jon gasp and feels a strong hand on the back of her head, pushing her further. _Jaime's hand_ , she thinks, as she struggles to take all of Jon in her mouth.

"Fuck," Jon gasps, and then he's pushing Jaime's hand away and she pulls her mouth away, breathless.

"Maybe you don't," Jaime observes.

"I need you," Jon says, and then he's holding her hips again, sliding inside of her so slowly, so gently, and Jaime's hands are rough on her hips, and then on the small of her back. She braces herself on Jon's chest, relishing the lean muscle beneath her fingers, as she feels something wet at her backside—and then realizes it's Jaime's finger, and there's a bottle discarded on the bed beside her and he's sliding inside of her, and all she can do is reel and gasp.

Is this power? Is this control? Is this what she wanted? Her eyes tear up as he slides his finger out, and she's too overwhelmed to even think of her embarrassment. Who is in control here? It can't be her: she is helplessly being pushed and pulled by these two men. It can't be Jon: he's beneath her, helplessly rutting upward, gripping her hips with sweaty but sure hands.

And it can't be Jaime, because he's sinking his teeth into her shoulder, gasping and clenching his fingers into her waist, kissing her neck clumsily, desperately, as he fucks her arse.

"You know what I want," Jon says suddenly, sitting forward, and she's suddenly empty, and Jaime has let go of her hips and has pulled out of her. Jon flips her on her back and hovers over her, and pushes back inside of her just as Jaime is pulling on her hair, pulling her head so that it is tilted, and her lips slide along his cock as she turns her head. He's standing beside the bed, one knee balanced on the edge of the mattress next to her head. 

She looks up and meets Jaime's golden eyes.

"Open," he orders softly, as Jon begins to move in and out of her again.

"No," she says, and then Jon's grip tightens on her hips and he pounds into her harder.

"Suck him off," he orders, his voice a strangled gasp, and then she's obediently opening her mouth to take Jaime as she closes her eyes, feels Jaime's strong hand on her breast. He squeezes and gasps as she moves her tongue along him. "Good girl," Jon whispers, kissing her other breast, and she whines around Jaime's cock as Jon's tongue flicks over her hardened bud.

And then Jon's pounding becomes more wild and desperate, and she struggles to breathe as Jaime fucks her face, and she wonders who is in control now—she doesn't think anyone is.

Jon comes with a shudder and a gasp, and melts against her, kissing lazily along her jaw as Jaime fists his hand in her hair. Jon pulls out of her slowly, and his fingers find her cunt and run along her slit teasingly, and she gasps and whines around Jaime's cock again, and then Jon's lips are on her breast, teasing her nipple just as he teases her clit with his fingers. She moves her hands and Jaime pins one down and Jon pins the other with his free hand. He slips his fingers inside of her as his tongue teases her breast and then she's coming around his fingers, choking on Jaime's cock as warmth floods her tongue and slides down her throat, burning like scotch.

* * *

 Sansa is still sore on Monday. She has a meeting at work and she shifts in her chair as a vendor spreads out colorful, glossy pictures of clothing before her. Her cunt and arse are raw; words that have no place in the lovely office of Jigsaw, done in shades of cream, tone against tone. She's sitting in an elegant brass chair that she even picked out, a year earlier. It's hard on her arse, hard where Jaime took her. 

She slides the glossy pages back across the blonde wood tabletop. She doesn't smile or apologize. 

"We're moving in a different direction," she says. "But thank you for your time." 

She watches the woman pack up her glossy pictures and samples, and then the office is empty. Through the thick brocade drapes she can hear central London: horns and yelling and tyres on wet pavement and heels clacking against sidewalks and people yelling into mobile phones. 

She's seeing Jon and Jaime tonight. 

Her fingers close around her mobile, which has lit up with a text message from Jon. 

 _wear black lingerie,_ it says. 

 _My cousin,_ she thinks. 

But it isn't Jon she messages next. She opens a text to Jaime, and her fingers hover over the screen only briefly. 

 _tonight you're going to spank me,_ she types out.  _Sent._

The three dots appear and she lowers her mobile below the table, just in case her boss comes in. 

 _tonight you're going to wear handcuffs and learn just how good your cousin is with his mouth,_ Jaime replies after a moment.  _And maybe you will get spanked... Maybe not by me._

She's already wet. 

Sansa leaves work and heads home to shower and change. She bought black lingerie yesterday on impulse and texted a picture to Jon who never replied. Now she knows it was all worth it. She admires the black lace and puts her businesslike cream blouse and black pencil skirt back on over top, and heads to the bar. 

She pushes through the door, trying to slow her movements; trying not to seem too eager. It's early, still, but Jon rearranged the shifts and he'll be done soon. She immediately spots Jaime's lean back...and then freezes in place when she recognizes the blonde waves next to him, tumbling down the back of a wine-coloured silk blouse. 

Sansa stands there, her breath caught in her throat, staring at Cersei's back. And, as if she  _knows,_ Cersei slowly turns away from the bar counter and looks back at her. Across the room their eyes lock, and Cersei's lion eyes rake over Sansa slowly, deliberately. Sansa only now realizes one elegant hand is on Jaime's thigh. Cersei's smile is lovely; beckoning; cruel. 

But Sansa isn't the same girl anymore, and she smiles back at Cersei; watches Cersei take in that smile and all that it means; walks toward Cersei with her back straight. When she reaches them, she slips in between Cersei and Jaime. She feels Jaime's thigh graze her leg, and she turns to Cersei and offers another smile. 

"Scotch on the rocks," she says, and glances at her cousin. Jon is behind the bar and their eyes meet. His beautiful mouth will be on her in less than an hour...but where will Cersei's mouth be? 

This is the woman who tormented her, who made her feel like  _nothing,_ for so many years. Sansa feels Cersei's cool hand brushing back her hair. 

"It's been so long, little dove," Cersei murmurs. There's an empty wine glass in front of her. Red wine, Sansa remembers. 

She should be shaken but Jaime's hand is on the small of her back and Jon's hand brushes hers as he slides the glass across the bar to her. Sansa takes it, takes a long swig of it, and sets it back on the counter, her throat burning.  _Just like when I swallowed your brother's come,_ she thinks, staring at Cersei. 

So she leans forward and touches Cersei's hair. Brushes her lips on the shell of Cersei's ear. 

"Make me come like your brother did," she whispers. She feels Cersei's laugh, a warm, wine-sour rush against her throat. 

"That's not happening," Cersei scoffs, and Sansa hears Jaime laugh behind her. 

"Yes, it is," he simply says. 


End file.
